


I want your drama

by surexit



Series: easy 'cause you're bare-chested [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:19:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad's maybe not the best at handling his feelings, but he's got good biceps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want your drama

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [I want your drama](https://archiveofourown.org/works/667666) by [SleepSpindles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepSpindles/pseuds/SleepSpindles)



> So many thanks to unfinishedidea, sying, verbosewordsmith, derryderrydown, and sophia_sol for various wonderful levels of hand-holding, beta-reading, and emotional support. ♥♥

“Hey kid,” Brad says as he opens the door. Ray snorts, and pushes inside.

“Hey soldier.” His voice is a little flat. “Do me a favour, fuck me up against the wall, I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

Brad manages not to gape like a slack-jawed yokel, but it’s a close thing. He closes the front door a little more loudly than he intends to, and turns to Ray. “You -” Ray glances up at him, and the challenging smirk on his face makes Brad square his shoulders and say, “Sure. No problem. Sounds good,” instead of asking the questions he was going to ask. He can feel heavy heat rising in his cheeks and gathering in his cock. “In the bedroom, we need -”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Ray says, stepping in until his chest is almost brushing against Brad’s. Brad’s skin feels raw in all of the places they’re not quite touching, hips and thighs and hands. “I’ve got a condom in my wallet and I already fingered myself, we don’t need anything. I’ll tell you _all_ about it if you undress.”

Brad has to swallow a couple of times. “Okay.” His voice sounds as though it’s scraping over glass.

He fumbles with the hem of his T-shirt, and Ray says, “Come on, just drop your pants. I did it in the shower.” Brad freezes. He can smell Ray’s shower gel, now that he thinks about it, something reminiscent of citrus fruits. “Remember last time you fucked me, like, a couple of weeks ago or whatever?” Brad nods mutely. “Right, well, I can report back with certainty that your cock is irritatingly large and has ruined the previously pleasurable solo activity of fingering for me, so thanks for that.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Brad says, pleased that he can still sound a little dismissive when he’s gone so hard so fast. He jolts his hands back into motion at Ray’s pointed look, undoing his belt buckle and resisting the really serious temptation to palm his cock and give it a rub, just a quick one, just something to relieve the tight-winding tension gathering all through his body.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Ray says, undoing his own fly and jerking his jeans and boxers down, leaving his T-shirt on. Brad can’t help his hands drifting to a halt again as he watches the long lines of the muscles in Ray’s legs, and his dark, half-hard dick. “I’m just _saying_ , it was pretty unsatisfying, and I feel pretty empty, and I want you to fix that, Bradley.” Ray bends to unlace his boots, and then kicks his jeans off, retrieving a condom from the pocket as he does so. “And I’m pretty sure you’ve got the biceps to hold me up, so let’s do it.” He straightens up and leans his shoulders back against the wall, hips cocked forwards. “As we say on the internet, my body is ready.”

That level of incoherency would normally coax at least a raised eyebrow out of Brad, but not now. Not with Ray looking like he is, eyelashes lowered over gleaming eyes and the angles and planes of his body on full display for Brad. Now, all he can manage is a slight nod of acknowledgement, and he finishes stripping off his pants with speed. Ray watches him, face intent and unsmiling.

The minute Brad’s half-naked, Ray holds out the condom. “Come on, come on,” he says. “Seriously, I’ve been waiting _forever_.” The muscles in his arm are tense and his voice is pitched a little higher than is usual.

“What’s crawled up your ass today?” Brad says. He rolls the condom on briskly, trying to recover some level of aplomb, and glances up at Ray. “It’s a rhetorical question, don’t answer it, I don’t need any more filthy details.”

There’s something on Ray’s face that Brad doesn’t quite recognise, but it’s gone before he can begin to catalogue it, replaced with a magnificent leer. “You want them, though, don’t you? Come here, let me tell you what I was thinking about while I was in the shower.”

Brad steps closer, and runs his hands down Ray’s chest, stroking over the soft cotton of his T-shirt and feeling the warmth underneath. “Go on then,” he says, voice as steady as he can keep it. “Tell me. But let me just -” he slides a hand around to Ray’s ass, palming the tight curve and insinuating his fingers into Ray’s crack “-check your workmanship.”

“I am very thorough,” Ray says, indignant but a little breathy. “But, yeah, satisfy your fucking OCD, man.” He spreads his stance wider, and Brad touches the rim of his asshole, finding it slick with lube. He dips his forefinger in to the first knuckle, just briefly, and Ray breathes in sharply. “Don’t tease, come the fuck on.”

“Okay,” Brad says, moving an inch or so closer. He bends his legs, and Ray rises onto his tiptoes, helped along by Brad’s hands on his ass. “Ready?”

“Yeah, go on,” Ray says, closing his eyes. Brad braces and lifts, and Ray moans a little as his feet leave the ground, wrapping his legs around Brad’s waist and winding his arms around Brad’s neck. “Okay, give me a second before you -”

“Yeah.” Brad leans in to bite gently at Ray’s neck, getting a pleased hiss from him. 

“Okay, good, I’m good, fuck me,” Ray says. Brad lowers him a little, just an inch or two, and Ray reaches down to guide Brad’s cock into his asshole, a slow, hitching slide that makes Ray thump his head back against the wall and Brad drop his forehead forwards onto Ray’s chest. “Yeah, fuck, that’s it,” Ray says, panting. Brad struggles to breathe, surrounded by the heat and scent of Ray.

“So in the shower, I was thinking,” Ray says, strained, as Brad starts to rock a little awkwardly into him. “I was thinking about eating you out. I was thinking about sticking my tongue right in your ass, getting all wet and filthy, probably using my fingers as well.” His voice spirals high and then cracks on the last words, as Brad grinds up viciously, hands tightening hard on Ray’s buttocks. “You like that, huh?” Ray says, strangled. “Yeah, you’d fucking love it, face down on your bed, just lying there and letting me go to town. You’d probably come without touching your cock – I wouldn’t let you touch it anyw-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brad grits out, because this is difficult and complicated and feels so fucking good that he thinks he might die – pushing, pressing Ray against the wall, surrounding him and being inside him, and he can’t cope with the images Ray is invoking as well as the reality of what’s happening.

Ray ignores him, of course. “Just imagine it, how loose and stretched and open you’d be by the time I finish- uh!” He jerks as Brad shifts him higher against the wall, the motion making Brad’s cock move inside him in a new way.

“Shut the fuck up, Ray,” Brad says again, and leans in to kiss him as motivation since he’s unlikely to obey the instruction otherwise. It’s a messy kiss. Brad has to keep breaking off to gasp in air, because this position is fucking hard work and the muscles in his arms are starting to burn, but also because everything is saturated with Ray, hot and close and everywhere - wet cockhead dragging against Brad’s stomach under his rucked-up T-shirt; soft, desperate moans in his ears; the smell of sweat and shower gel and pre-come; the way Ray looks, pinned against the wall – and Brad needs to breathe in something that isn’t Ray before he drowns. 

Each time he disengages only lasts for a few seconds, before he looks back at Ray, trembling and moving his hips in small unconscious motions, and he has to lean back and crush his mouth to Ray’s again.

Somewhere in the haze of kissing and fucking, Ray’s moans get louder and more urgent before he goes still, legs clenching on Brad’s hips, and Brad feels his cock jerking between them. He looks down to see come splashed across their stomachs and T-shirts. That’s almost it, for Brad – a few more grinding strokes and he stiffens, forcing Ray even harder against the wall as he comes.

He lets Ray down almost immediately, a graceless slide that only just avoids Ray ending up in a heap on the floor, given how boneless and fucked-out they both are. “Fuck yes,” Ray says breathlessly as he regains his footing. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Brad agrees, voice rough.

“Fuck,” Ray says again, slightly differently. His voice is hoarse, but it’s not the mellow post-coital tone that Brad expects. There’s something bleak in it that makes Brad, leaning face-first against the wall and breathing in short gasps, frown.

He rolls his head to the side and inspects Ray suspiciously. Ray has his back to the wall and his head tipped up towards the ceiling. Most of his body is completely relaxed, loose and splayed, but his mouth is a tight line. Most importantly, he’s not talking.

They’ve been doing this off and on, this mostly-sex thing, for a couple of months. Long enough for Brad to know some things about Ray. One of the things he knows is that Ray talks about all sorts of shit after sex, long and rambling and lazy, while Brad listens with half an ear. This flat silence is alien.

“Hey,” Brad says. “Hey, Person.”

“What?” Ray snaps, and that’s off as well – Ray’s irritation is usually expressed by monologuing until Brad wants to strangle him, not by shortness or sharpness.

For a moment or two Brad considers disengaging, getting Ray out of the door as quickly as possible and letting him stumble off to sort his head out. It’s starting to dawn on Brad that he’s just been used as amateur therapy and the thought is a little disquieting. He’s not sure how he feels about it, but he’s not sure he wants to get involved any further.

He looks at Ray again, already starting to mentally run through efficient ways to encourage him to get in the shower and then get out, but he stops short when he sees Ray’s face. The blankness that has settled over his expression makes something in Brad’s throat tighten a little, and he looks away, pushing away from the wall to stand up straight and stretch out his complaining shoulders and arms. “Hey,” he says softly. “You want dinner?”

They haven’t done that since the first time. 

“Uh,” Ray says, a thread of surprise in his voice. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t... sure.”

“Okay,” Brad says, concentrating on pulling off and knotting the condom and dropping it into the trashcan in the corner of the hall. “Go and get in the shower. Again.”

That makes Ray’s expression slide back into something Brad’s a little more comfortable with, a sly curl to his mouth and half-lidded eyes as he says, “Yeah. Again,” with a leer that Brad sees out of the corner of his eye.

Brad ignores him and strips off his T-shirt, using it to wipe off the dabs of come on his belly. He fishes in the clothes on the floor until he finds his boxers, and pulls them on. It’s warm enough in the house that he can wait for the chance to shower after Ray before getting properly dressed. “Get going,” he says briskly. “I’ll get dinner started.” 

Ray’s silent, and when Brad looks up he finds that he’s being watched intently. Ray glances up at his face, and offers a lopsided smile. “Sorry. Enjoying the view. And that ugly-ass tattoo, homes, it never fails to make my eyes bleed.”

“Your eyes look fine to me,” Brad says impatiently, touching Ray’s cheek for a moment which stretches longer than he intends. Then he shrugs his shoulders and drops his hands abruptly. “Get in the fucking shower.”

“Going, going, fuck, I’m not one of your toy soldiers, Marine.” Ray grins at Brad. “Can my T-shirt go in the washer?” He’s pulling it off as he speaks, and Brad takes some time to enjoy the pale wiry expanse of chest revealed.

“Give it to me, I’ll put them both in.”

Ray nods, and turns to go up the stairs towards the bathroom. Brad can’t help watching; the flex of Ray’s ass as he climbs is pretty difficult to ignore. He shakes himself out of it after a second or two, and turns to go through the kitchen, stopping briefly en route to put the T-shirts in the washer and set it off. He can hear, very faintly, the sounds of the shower starting up and of Ray beginning to sing. Whenever he knows Brad can hear him, he’s always purposefully and hideously out of tune, but right now he’s obviously singing for himself rather than for irritant value, because the snatches of Bad Romance that Brad can hear are pretty melodious.

By the time he hears the shower stop, Brad has tomato sauce and pasta going and is leaning against the countertop idly flicking through a magazine in an effort to distract himself from what he has reluctantly identified as a slight, creeping sense of worry. Worry about Ray and whatever’s going on in his whiskey-tango head. The distraction tactic isn’t working very well, not when he can hear Ray moving about upstairs.

He’s looking at the doorway when Ray comes into the kitchen, and frowns for a second as he realises that he’s raided Brad’s closet, and stolen one of his favourite T-shirts. It drowns Ray, of course, down almost to mid-thigh over the jeans he’s obviously rescued from the hallway floor and making him look even smaller than usual, and Brad’s not sure why he can’t quite meet Ray’s eyes. “Watch this,” he says, suddenly awkward. “I’ll go shower.” Ray nods mutely. His hair’s drying into soft strands around his face.

Brad heads out of the kitchen, and wonders why it feels so much like an escape.

In the shower, he lets the hot water run over his ears and eyes, tipping his head back and trying to keep his thoughts concerned with nothing more than washing himself. His body is still buzzing lightly with adrenaline and bliss, his spine loose, and it should be simple to concentrate on the feeling of the washcloth running over still sensitised skin, and the slickness of soap on his hands, but his thoughts keep idly straying back to contemplate Ray with concern. Frustrated, he speeds up the shower, makes it quick and efficient, and he’s walking through the kitchen doorway within ten minutes, towelled dry and in clean clothes. 

Ray’s dishing up, having obviously remembered where Brad keeps plates. He moves comfortably in Brad’s kitchen, not looking entirely at home but enough so that it makes Brad’s shoulders hunch a little. He’s not startled by the resentment he feels at seeing Ray in his space, but the simultaneous warmth he gets from the sight makes him hesitate at the threshold. The moment stretches, and then Ray looks up and raises his eyebrows. “This is ready,” he says.

Brad controls his breathing and walks into the room. “Want a beer?”

Ray shoots Brad an unreadable look, but his voice is level as he says, “Yeah, sure.”

Brad nods, and starts to set the kitchen table, retrieving a couple of beers from the fridge and stretching above Ray’s head to get at the salt and pepper. Ray carries the food over, and they sit down to eat in an odd silence.

After a mouthful or two of pasta Brad gives himself a mental shake. If he’s going to do this, then he’s going to do it well. He clears his throat, tips his beer towards Ray in a slight salute, and says, “How was your day?”

That makes Ray’s eyes widen comically. “I’m almost certain there should be a ‘dear’ on the end of that sentence,” he says.

“How was your day, dear?” Brad says solemnly.

Ray rounds his eyes even further, and his mobile eyebrows bunch together. “Wow. No, seriously, wow. Did I slip and fall into the fifties?”

“Unless you’re suddenly missing your dick, probably not.” 

Ray gropes himself, with a salacious wink, and says, “That’s a negative.”

“Oh good,” Brad says, in as monotonous a tone as he can produce. “California’s supply of ugly women and farmyard livestock will continue to be sexually satisfied.”

Ray tips his head back against the wall, grinning up at the ceiling. He looks exactly like he should, and it’s making the muscles in Brad’s back relax by increments. “Every time you buy into the patriarchal fantasy of objective beauty, a fairy dies somewhere, you know that, Colbert? Who are you to categorise any person as ugly? I don’t sleep with women, anyway. Mostly.”

“You’ve said nothing about the livestock,” Brad says.

“I have the right not to incriminate myself.”

“I’m not actually a police officer.”

“You’d be hot in that uniform, though. Oh, holy shit, Brad, I just realised, you own a uniform, an actual uniform.” 

Brad raises his eyebrows. “Several.”

“Oh my God, that’s so hot I might diiiie,” Ray moans exaggeratedly. “Will you fuck me in it?”

“No,” Brad says, and drinks his beer, ignoring the pout that has materialised on the other side of the table. “Shut the fuck up, Ray.”

Ray shakes his head. “You don’t want me to shut up,” he says, blithe but with a taut undercurrent. “You want me to talk about my feelings, you just don’t want to have to ask me about them. Go on, for fuck’s sake. Ask what’s wrong.”

“I wasn’t going t-” Brad says automatically.

“No, of course you weren’t, you’re a real man, but I can hear you resisting the urge to be a Jewish grandmother from here. That’s why the pity-dinner.” He looks down at his plate, and then says sadly, “I sort of thought you’d fuck me back to cheerfulness, guess your cock’s not as magic as I hoped.” His face is abruptly tragic and big-eyed, and Brad bites the inside of his cheek to avoid a sudden laugh.

“Fine, what the fuck’s been making you look like a heartbroken muppet?”

“Which muppet?” Ray asks, with a slightly manic interest.

“Ray.”

“Nothing. Just a really, epically shitty day.” Ray winds spaghetti determinedly onto his fork. “College shit. I probably shouldn’t have come over, to be honest. Should have just gone back to my room and watched Days of Our Lives.”

“Sounds enticing,” Brad says. Then he takes a breath, kicks his foot gently against Ray’s ankle, and adds, “Spill.”

That gets a flicker of surprise to cross Ray’s face. “Okay.” He hesitates, and eats some more pasta. “Okay, so,” he says after a few seconds. “I’m doing my senior thesis at the moment. And I’ve been landed with the worst fucking advisor I’ve ever seen, holy shit, the guy’s a _headcase_ , man. I’ve been trying to get things switched around, but no one’s moving, so whatever. Guess I’m stuck.” He shrugs, taking a pull of his beer. “Whatever.”

Brad waits. Now Ray’s talking, it seems likely that he’ll continue with little encouragement.

He’s proved right after a second or two. “Fuck him and his issues, which are not my problem and are probably the result of not enough sex, since he looks like the result of a car smash. Not enough of the dirty deed is generally the root of most academics’ issues, and given how fucking obsessed he is with _my_ sex life I’m pretty happy making that diagnosis. And my mo- just a bad day.”

“Your mom?” Brad says cautiously.

Ray hesitates for a moment or two, and then says, “So she walked in on me and this guy about a week before I left for college. This was a few years ago, obviously. And now we talk on the phone maybe once every two or three weeks, and it sucks. And we did that today, had a seven minute chat. I timed it. She tries.” He looks up at Brad and twists his mouth ruefully. “So it’s been one of those days, and I probably shouldn’t have come, but like I said, I had foolishly high hopes of your magic cock.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Brad says, and nudges his foot against Ray’s ankle again. He’s at sea in this conversation, unprepared for the urge to protect and comfort and he feels the need to have some part of his body touching some part of Ray’s. The nudge loosens the corners of Ray’s mouth, and something about that makes Brad feel a little warm.

“Nah, it’s cool. Sorry to get my bad mood cooties on you.”

Brad shrugs. “I’ll survive. Want another beer?” There’s not much else he thinks he can offer.

“Fuck yes. And I’m not sure you will, I can see your manly facade collapsing as I speak,” Ray says, starting to smile a little. 

“I just held you up against a wall and fucked you, you tiny runt. I think my masculinity is above reproach right now.” Brad gets up to fetch the beer, and tosses it to Ray.

“You’re so cruel,” Ray says mournfully as he catches it.

Brad sits back down, looking at his food to keep a straight face. “I just held you up against a wall and fucked you, you tiny runt," he repeats. "I think my kindness and generosity are above reproach right now.”

“I could tell it was a real sacrifice,” Ray says, a little smugly, “by the way you came so hard.” He takes a couple of sips of his beer and then says, “Seriously, next time you invite me to stay for dinner, could you have something better than Coors in?”

Brad flips him off, and pretends not to hear the gratitude in the words. “Next time, you could stop freeloading and provide the food,” he says.

There’s a very, very slight pause, something Brad would miss if he wasn’t paying attention, before Ray says, “Sure. Next time.”


End file.
